A sharp pain woke Draco with a start. He felt as if a bucket of acid had been thrown on his wounds. It was unbearable; it felt as if he were dying, slowly.
However, he realised, when he opened his eyes, that it had only been a trick of his mind. The pain was gone, or at least greatly reduced. He had one hell of a headache and his limbs were numb, but it was incomparable to what he had thought he felt.
His heartbeat was rapid and his legs were tingling, but he was alive. He was alive.
He couldn't help it, his eyes filled with tears. The light was too strong. He closed them straight away. His torment over his pain was over and he finally realised that something had changed.
He wasn't in his cell. He wasn't lying on the cold wet floor of Azkaban.
Instead it was warm and he was surrounded by soft, comfortable sheets.
It smelled good, a sweet smell of clean linen.
This wasn't normal.
He began to feel scared. Where was he?
A few snatches of memory came back to him. The look in Blaise's eyes, the portkey, then the incomprehensible sentences that had been spoken to him. He had been released. He was no longer in his cell.
He didn't know where he was, however, and this put him in a state of considerable panic. If he wasn't in Azkaban, how would he stay sane? If he could no longer count the slabs or the minutes that passed?
He would have to completely reacclimatise to a new environment. That wasn't an option. It was far too difficult, insurmountable.
He didn't know all this, he wasn't ready to build new habits. What could he do to keep his head up if he couldn't listen to the sound of the waves at night to go to sleep?
Then he remembered Blaise's letter.
Granger. He was at Granger's house. He remembered it now.
She welcomed him into her home. She had agreed to take him in. She had agreed to let a Death Eater into her house.
He was in her house. Her bed. Her sheets.
He wanted to vomit, to scream, to tear his head off. He couldn't believe it. It was too difficult. He couldn't do this. He didn't need to open his eyes to know that his head was spinning. He could feel himself fading.
All these facts were too hard to take. His mind was unable to cope.
He was no longer in Azkaban. He was no longer in the cell that guaranteed him at least safety. He was no longer in his personal hell, which was proving to be the only place he felt he knew. The only place that was familiar to him.
He felt faint and let go. He didn't have the strength to fight. He didn't want to.
oOo
When he opened his eyes, Draco was calmer than when he had first awoke. Perhaps a little sleep had been enough to stop his body from struggling with reality.
He let his pupils gradually adjust to the light. As he regained consciousness, his mind woke too, allowing him to realise what was going on. The panic had subsided, but remained in a corner of his mind. It would have been too easy for her to disappear in her sleep. Now he had to be strategic if he wanted to be able to deal with all this properly. He knew what he was risking by going too fast and letting his thoughts and ruminations overwhelm him and take over.
He felt bandages covering his hands and legs, and could smell the lye from the garment he had been put in, which – he suspected – was nothing like his usual prison garb. His mouth was dry, but didn't taste salty from the sea air. He could move his toes.
Probably the most unsettling thing was the silence around him. No shouting. No waves. No distant cries. No wind. Nothing. A complete silence. So complete that it was eerie, unsettling.
He closed his eyes for a second to stop himself from thinking about it any longer and concentrated on the rest of his sensations.
He had been healed. His pain had lessened, but still persisted in places. He could move his fingertips and the clothes he was wearing didn't stick to his wounds. He felt much less weak than he had during his time in the prison. He realised that he had, somehow, been fed properly. He was hydrated, he could tell by the lack of burning in the back of his throat. He was unsettled not to feel his stomach crying out. It was so unusual. He realised that he would probably never have to feel such a thing again.
He tried to sit up and take stock of the room he was in, but was unable to do so. The wounds on his back reminded him that he wasn't fit enough to do so. He groaned in pain. A sound that was closer to a squeak.
So he just looked around the room from where he was, his heart pounding as he took in the beauty of the place. Everything seemed stunning when compared to the prison. No more black, grey and dirt.
The ceiling was painted a cream colour. There was a white lampshade. The walls were slightly lighter. To his right, he could make out the top of a large window which seemed to look out onto the countryside, but also onto the mountains, as far as he saw. The panes – two in number by his count – were framed by two white curtains. A dark wooden door stood in front of him.
His reclining position made it impossible for him to see anything else. Although he was disappointed, he did nothing to satisfy his curiosity.
The room seemed rather large and well decorated, or so he imagined.
He raised his hands to his face and noticed that a few bandages surrounded his knuckles and the inside of his palms. He hadn't been mistaken.
He had been taken care of. He could imagine Blaise and Pansy using their little knowledge of healing for this, almost bringing a smile to his face. Tears welled up in his eyes, though he tried to hold them back.
He had hardly cried in years, and now he was quite emotional.
He let his hands fall back onto the mattress as he heard footsteps in his direction.
His heart missed a beat. Someone was coming towards him. He felt a drop of sweat form on his temple.
What if this was all a trap? What if whoever had come for him wasn't Blaise? What if he had been brought here to continue torturing him? To make him pay for his past actions? After all, removed from Azkaban, no one could rescue him, no one would ever find him.
It could only be that. Someone wanted to hurt him. He had been tricked. Granger would never agree to help him. No one could accept such a thing. They would kill him.
The door opened and Draco wondered how his body managed not to faint.
As the footsteps approached, he met Granger's whisky-coloured gaze, the same as he remembered in a blur. That colour was so meaningful.
He jumped violently when a loud crash of dishes was heard. Granger looked shocked. As did he.
They stood there for several seconds, staring into each other's eyes, still.
Draco could hear his blood pounding in his ears. He was – as always – in a weak position. He couldn't even stand up. He didn't dare to make the slightest movement. It was his only defence, the one he had used for years. If he showed no weakness or hostility, the consequences were always better. It was all about survival.
But Granger didn't seem ready to move either, which reassured him, in a way.
If she'd wanted to kill him, she'd have done it already, wouldn't she? Besides, what executioner would stand still in front of his victims before taking action anyway?
He saw her lips start to tremble. She seemed just as disturbed as he was.
Should he say something? Should he do something? He wasn't sure he could. Just raising his arms had taken effort.
If, during his time in prison, his body had adapted to his injuries and weakness to move anyway, this was no longer the case. He didn't know how long he had slept, but his body had lost all its tone.
Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, Granger bent down – out of his line of sight – and he could hear the dishes clattering again. He assumed she was picking up what she had dropped.
She stood up a minute later and walked towards him without looking at him, without a word. He clenched his jaws to stop himself from shaking as she approached. All his limbs were screaming at him to run, to protect himself. Anything but staying still like this.
He turned his head to follow her as best he could. He saw her pull out her wand and this time was unable to stop himself from reacting. He pulled away sharply, making him groan in pain at the sudden movement. He was on the other side of the bed, huddled with his back to her, curled in on himself.
His breathing was erratic. He had been right, she had meant him harm. She would hurt him.
He heard her stop and clenched his eyelids tightly.
This was it. He would die. He could already feel himself leaving and bleeding to death. She had cast a spell on him, that was certain. His head was spinning and his vision was blurry.
"Malfoy!" he heard before he sank.
His body was failing him again and again.
oOo
Hermione spun around in the room, glaring at Malfoy's bloody, lifeless body. She was panicking. She had no idea what to do.
She had read such fear in his eyes that she had frozen. He had been afraid of her and her wand. Had she done something wrong? Had she given the impression that she wanted to hurt him?
Her heart was racing. She didn't want to deal with this. She couldn't.
How could she afford to deal with someone in a state like hers? She had been startled when Zabini had drawn her wand two days earlier. She had made a mistake. She should never have agreed.
She couldn't. She couldn't. She couldn't.
Tears welled up in her eyes, her teeth clashed with her heart, and she had placed her hands on his head, tangling them in his hair.
She didn't know what to do.
Should she call someone? Should she call Harry? Zabini?
Yes. Zabini. He had told her to call him when Malfoy woke. She would do that. She would explain to him that she couldn't handle Malfoy, that he had to go somewhere else. She couldn't handle it. She just couldn't.
She ran out of the room, without a last glance at Malfoy's blood-dripping body. She had already stopped thinking about it.
Calling Zabini.
That was her objective. She could think of nothing else.
Albert had come back inside and started to bark at her for being so agitated, but she didn't react. She rushed to the fireplace and knelt down in front of it.
She froze. What now? What was she supposed to do?
The address. Yes. The address.
"Zabini flat, 16 Dorset Garden Street, Brighton," she exclaimed as she threw floo powder into the fire.
She put one hand on the ground to avoid collapsing to the floor.
The flames had turned green and she looked into them to stay focused.
A second later, the face of Pansy Zabini appeared.
"Granger? Something wrong with Draco?" she worried immediately.
After all, she couldn't think of any other explanation, could she?
"He's awake, you must come. Quickly," she declared in a neutral, almost automatic voice.
It was as if she had memorised her sentence. Which wasn't entirely untrue. An automaton carefully tuned not to ramble. No extraneous thoughts. No worries. No pain. No sensations.
The connection cut off immediately and Hermione dragged herself to the nearest chair. She burst into tears. How was she going to get through this? Why had she agreed to this? How could she have imagined that it would work?
Albert leaned against her legs, looking sad, but she didn't pay any attention. She was elsewhere, lost. The automaton was switched off. Her ruminations returned in force.
A minute later, the Zabini couple appeared in the flames. Blaise's gaze was panicked. Pansy seemed calmer, more serious.
"Where is he, Granger?" he immediately exclaimed, approaching her.
She swallowed, unable to answer.
"Where is he?!"
She was petrified, her eyes terrified. She burst into tears again, unable to speak a word. She was panicking. Her jaws were shaking, tears were running down her cheeks and the sound of her crying prevented her from hearing anything.
"Blaise, darling, calm down. You can see that she–"
"Granger, where's Draco?" he repeated without listening to his wife, placing his hands on Hermione's shoulders.
She moaned as she tried to pull herself out of his grip. In vain.
"For Merlin's sake, Blaise, step aside! Can't you see she's not in her right mind!" Pansy shouted as she pushed her husband away. "Go look in the room where we left him, I doubt he's moved."
He didn't wait a single second longer, nor did he apologise, and ran upstairs. Pansy took his place and knelt down in front of Hermione, grabbing her hands as she went.
"Granger," she called to her once to catch her eye. "Granger, focus on my voice. There, like that, very good. Look at me. It's all right, breathe. Keep your breathing in line with mine."
Hermione did her best to calm her breathing, but felt as if her whole world was shattering. It was as if the house of cards she had carefully managed to build after years of work had just collapsed.
She tried to focus her attention on the physical contact with Pansy's hands. The only thing that connected her to the real world.
"Breathe, it's okay, Granger. You're not alone. Do you want to get some fresh air?"
Hermione nodded slowly. Her tears had dried up, but she was hot. She contented herself with following Pansy's advice. She couldn't think of anything else. She grabbed the first outstretched hand she saw at the bottom of her dark pit.
Pansy pulled her by the forearms and helped her to her feet. They walked slowly, arm in arm, to the front door.
The fresh air did her better than she thought it would. It cleared her mind, gradually sweeping away her negative thoughts.
Pansy offered her a seat, but she preferred to walk. She decided to show her around the stable. They might not be friends, but Hermione needed to get her mind off of things. Radically.
Hera seemed to like Pansy, which didn't surprise her that much. Although she wasn't a horse expert, she had noticed that the two equines' characters were strictly different. And the female was much more prideful than her companion.
As she entered Ares' cubicle to clean him up, Hermione thought that Pansy had managed to calm her down. It was rare that anyone could do that. Usually only her calming potions were effective.
"You need to go back with him," Hermione said, stroking Ares' head.
She didn't look at Pansy as she spoke. She didn't dare to face her judgement. She almost preferred to ignore her, like the egotist she thought herself to be.
She heard her stop brushing Hera.
"We're not allowed, you realise that? Draco can't go back to England," she replied coldly.
Her voice had changed drastically. It wasn't as gentle as it had been when she had been by her side to calm her down.
Hermione could understand it but once again decided to ignore it. It didn't matter. It was no longer her problem. She didn't want it to be.
"Take him to Nott's," she continued.
"Granger–"
"He can't stay here," she cut her off in a shaky voice. "I've made a mistake. He has to go away."
"That's impossible, Granger," Pansy replied as she appeared in her field of vision, behind the door of Ares' cubicle. "You made a vow, you can't go back. He has to live with you."
"We'll find a solution. There has to be one! We have to search, we have to–"
She burst into tears in the middle of her sentence. She didn't know what to do. She wanted him to go away. She couldn't stand it any longer. She had hoped that this would work, that she could handle it despite everything. She thought she was well enough to be able to handle another presence.
She had been sorely mistaken.
He was too much. He didn't belong there. She couldn't take care of him. She couldn't live with any other presence than Albert. It was too much.
"Granger, listen to me, look at me," Pansy told her as she put her hands on her shoulders to face her.
She didn't want to look at her. She didn't want to be reassured. She wanted to be alone.
Pansy grabbed her by the chin to look at her.
"You can get through this, Granger. You're not on your own. Potter is here, he'll be visiting soon. Draco isn't alone either, we're all here to support him. You're not alone in this. You don't even have to do anything. Blaise and I will do it."
Hermione kept shaking her head. She didn't want this. He had to go away. She wanted to be back in her own home. Tears kept rolling down her cheeks.
"You can't let yourself go under, Granger. We won't let you. You'll go back to work at the bookstore on Monday, and you will be back to your normal routine, and you'll be able to rest easy there, okay? Draco will eventually recover from his injuries and he'll be on his own. You won't have to do anything, you understand? Do you understand, Granger?" she repeated.
Hermione nodded, although she wasn't convinced. She couldn't imagine things going well when just meeting Malfoy's gaze had made her so nervous. It was impossible. Insurmountable.
"How did you get to work when you couldn't even leave your house? Huh?"
"I don't know," Hermione murmured between her choked sobs.
"You took it upon yourself, you fought. Things don't happen overnight, but you got there, didn't you?"
She nodded.
"You think you're the only one who has trouble living normally? You think you're the only one who can't get out of your house without panicking at the slightest noise? Breaking news, no, you're not! We're all the same, Granger. But we fight. We don't stand still and feel sorry for ourselves, we fight and we move our asses. Blaise would never have been able to work if he hadn't had the goal of getting Theo and Draco out of jail. The same goes for Potter. They fought."
"I don't want to fight. I don't want to fight anymore," Hermione sobbed as she pulled away from Pansy's hands and turned her back to her.
"Don't you have a dream, Granger? Something that drives you? That makes you want to keep going?"
Hermione shook her head, unable to answer her questions.
"Then why are you still here? Why didn't you cast a spell to end it? Huh?"
Hermione didn't answer. No one had ever been so abrupt with her. She couldn't believe that she could be so violent with her words. Tears ran silently down her cheeks.
"I'll answer for you. You're still not dead and buried because you know you're better than that, that you're capable of doing something with your fucking life, Granger," Pansy continued. "You want to make something of your fucking life. You think Potter and Blaise didn't tell me about all the times you swore you didn't want to help anyone anymore? Who are you trying to convince by saying that? Yourself or the others?"
Hermione clenched her fists and eyelids, sobbing silently.
"Shut up," she growled in a low voice.
"No, Granger. Because you need to hear it. I'm not like Potter or my husband. I'm not just going to wait until you decide to get better to ask you for more. I'm not going to wait ten fucking years for you to open your eyes!"
"I'm getting better," Hermione replied with uncertainty.
"You are? Are you sure about that? You can stay living with Draco, then, can't you?" Pansy snapped sarcastically.
Hermione lowered her head, feeling helpless. She didn't answer. She knew it was useless.
"That's what I thought. You're just as aware as I am that you're running into the wall, Granger. And you're not going to get away with it."
"Who says I want to get away with it?" Hermione growled through her teeth.
"No one, indeed. Only you can know that. But ask yourself the right questions. When you've decided that you're better than this and you want to get out, you know how to contact me."
Hermione heard footsteps approaching her and cowered in shock. She then saw Pansy walk past her and out of the stable, shaking her head.
Ask yourself the right questions.
Hermione slid against the outer wall of the stable and clutched her head in her hands, releasing her restrained sobs.
And that's it! See you on Wednesday 11/16 for the next chapter!
Thanks to Acciobraincells, f1dget, habon and kreimal for theirhelp!
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